For Us, and All the Good It Will Do
by Higekimaru
Summary: The Gotei's in shambles. Komamura's back. Hisagi's been waiting. There's friction. M for language, implied KomamuraxHisagi.


**A/N: Look at this. My writing has gotten so distracting that I am shirking not just my academic and personal responsibilities, but also the obligation I have to continue _A Pair of Monsters _in a timely manner. Oh well. This is unbetaed, because I've wasted too much time on it as is. It has nothing to do with any of my other stories, though if one of you guys wants to steal the concept, feel free, as long as you tell me about it. Reviews are appreciated, and I'll get back on my other stuff as soon as I can. By the way, the Diet is the Japanese legislature, and is used in the untranslated material to refer to the Central Forty-six.**

**I don't own Bleach. Only my grim outlook and questionable emotional health. **

**For Us, and All the Good It Will Do**

Hisagi Shūhei ran a thumb along the hilt of Kazeshini, meditative, as he surveyed the reconstruction of the Ninth Division. Steel rebar protruding from blocks of stone that were to constitute the new barracks reached towards the noontime sun, like so many fingers grasping for a sky that remained stubbornly out of reach. He new that the sight should have instilled a sense of optimism, even if it was a grim one, in any healthy man or woman.

Instead, it called to mind the War and all of its casualties: the thousands of men and women lost in the initial assault; many of his friends—_Kira, and Matsumoto, and the Captain—_ and his own lasting injuries. Entire families that had been serving for centuries in the Gotei were wiped out in the space of hours—_Maybe this is what it was like for the Quincy, all those years ago—_and many survivors were permanently injured or crippled in their entirety, despite the Fourth's best efforts. The death of Captain Unohana, officially dubbed a "training accident," had left the relief squadron without its leader and keystone. _The Seireitei Communication _was running a number of articles in the wake of the Blood War; most of them were little more than morale-boosting propaganda, good for little more than starting cook-fires and self-indulgent optimism. Its most ardent believers were also the most naïve of the Shinigami.

He understood the necessity, but still hated the concept of using his—_and Muguruma-taichō's, and Mashiro's, and even Tōsen's_, he added—pride and joy as little more than far-too-permeable bandages for the Gotei's emotional wounds. With the deaths or "decomissioning" of several Captains and Lieutenants (and countless seated officers), there was a dearth of material, and the absence of the familiar bylines was noticed by the readers, regardless of rank. His thoughts—_They limp and lurch, just like me_—turned to the former Captain of the Seventh Division, the only captain-class casualty that had left the fighter in question technically alive but on indefinite leave.

Sidestepping a small mob of Kidō Corps members—_They're the Fifty-ninth reconstruction squad. And they're four hours late—_he slipped into flickering movement of flash step, flying over the few intact tile roofs too quickly to be seen clearly by the naked eye.

It still wasn't enough to outpace the grief and deep, implacable fatigue.

Between The Sternritter's Quincy: Vollständig and the use of numerous Shingami's ban kai, dozens of square kilometers of Seireitei had had their infrastructure destroyed, including the sewer system and subterranean power lines. The majority of the Gotei now lived in tent cities; miserable, crowded places that were poorly ventilated and unheated—wholly unsuitable for the thousands that crowded into them by division, even with the few mostly unscathed divisions filled to a point well above capacity. The Shinigami's duties in the World of the Living had their forces stretched to the breaking point to begin with, even without the prodigious task of of rebuilding their homes.

_And with summer coming up, we'll have new problems, _he thought grimly as he offered a spoken progress report to his captain in the shade of a plasticine tent. The report concluded with a crisp update on the progress of barracks reconstruction.

The sharp edges of his professional speech weren't enough to hide the decay of his emotional equilibrium.

"Hisagi."

"Hai, taichō."

Capatain Muguruma stood and began to walk past him. "Go take a break. You have the day off. You look worse than the Head Captain did on the day he heard about his family's distillery being destroyed."

"Captain—"

"Now, goddamnit."

Hisagi hesitated.

"Hai, taichō."

Nursing a cup of lukewarm water—_Tastes like metal. Or is that just the bad taste in my mouth?—_Hisagi sat in the cantine established by the remains of the Ninth Division, considering layouts for the next issue of the _Communication_. Seireitei's economy had taken a massive hit from the destruction, as would be expected, so the number of ads being taken out in recent months had declined sharply. With that number, the potency of the propaganda had fallen, as had reader faith and the size of the issues, which were, in principal, a promise for the future.

Promises are hard to believe in if they come from cracked, trembling lips.

_There's only so much we can do_, lamented Hisagi as he sunk his head into the cradle of a hand.

_I wish I could get a shower._

Hisagi knew that he could spend hours on the subject—_off time_, he though acerbically—without making headway. Dead merchants don't post adds. That was the crux of his insoluble problem, one that might have driven him to drink if there had been any time for such self-indulgence.

_I'm going to end up like Kira._

The stifling silence of the long mess tent was broken by the chiming of a hell butterfly approaching Hisagi. He extended the index of the hand that cradled his cup, dreading whatever news he was about to receive.

_What is it now? Someone else died? We're out of supplies again? There's been a construction accident?_

The creature made its leisurely approach—_This is why we need the denreishinki network in Seireitei—_and set down spindly legs on Hisagi's finger. With flawless clarity, the deep, slightly hoarse voice of Iba Tetsuzaemon was reproduced.

_"Hisagi-san, it worked!"_

Hisagi was gone before the cup hit the ground, problems and duties discarded, just this once, in favor of personal concerns.

He stumbled to a stop outside Seireitei, too winded from the repeated uses of shunpo to do any more than pause, doubled over and winded. In spite of his state, Hisagi continued onward, limp—_Fucking Quincy—_exacerbated by the flash steps he had used to expedite his arrival.

The news he had received was good; the first reason in months to be happy. Immediately after the conclusion of the war, which had seen the death of Ywach at the hands of his right hand, who had since gone into hiding, Lieutenant Iba Tetsuzaemon of the Seventh Division had begun research, aided by many of the Division's men, and Hisagi himself when duties allowed, on a method to return their captain to active service. Most of a year had been spent trying to make contact with the beastial Captain Komamura on a meaningful level; efforts that had proven fruitless at best, and dangerous at worst.

_Like the first time he tried to maul me. _The thought crept in uninvited, sinking a barb into Hisagi's heart. That had been the first time the group had seen how far gone Komamura was. Iba and his men had briefly considered abandoning the project, looking down at the wolf in its kennel as the sedated beast's head sank to the ground. The sense of despair had filled the cavern, like the perfume of an ill-formed, dying flower.

_And I hated it._

Then, Iba, a highly competent demon arts user, had done the unthinkable for a man as thoroughly law-abiding as him: he suggested the use of highly illegal kidō, the type that twisted the fabric of space-time into impossible shapes. The only way to truly unmake something.

Thus, the plan to reverse Komamura's fall was conceived. Using the chaos of the beginnings of the reconstruction to begin illicit research into the use of space-time kidō, Iba and his men had spent months on their clandestine task, and had threatened, bribed, stolen, and lied their way into acquiring the materials needed; chiefly mountains of books and time.

It had taken another several months—_And so many late _nights, thought Hisagi—for Hisagi and Iba to make sense of the mountains of theories, studies, models, and experiments before them. And now, the first, and the probable last, of their attempts to save the man dear to his division and friends had taken place.

_This wasn't supposed to happen until tonight, though...but I could give a shit. The Captain's alright! After all of this—_

_ —_memories of a snarling, mute, feral Komamura, and the horrifying realization that the Captain might never again lead his men even as they hid him away from the eyes of the authorities intruded—

_He's finally gonna be okay._

Hisagi smiled over the cramp in his leg as he limped to the cavern the Captain had been kept in.

A tear carved a trail through the dust and grime coating his face.

Hisagi approached the broadest open area of the cavern cautiously, feeling anxious despite himself. The air seemed to vibrate with an amalgam of foreign reiatsu signatures, woven together in an obtuse pattern that stood at the very edge of what any normal human could comprehend. As the entrance to the cave narrowed, Hisagi grew tenser. The darkness drew in on him, shroudlike. He extended his awareness, and exhaled a shuddering breath at the familiar reiatsu brushing against his.

_ Komamura-taichō._

Hisagi rounded a corner, nearly tripping over the catatonic body of one of the Seventh's men. Iba, sitting next to a lantern, looked up at his approach, eyes moist. Wordlessly the two men embraced, equally glad to have revived their mutual friend and mentor.

Iba sat back down, wiping at his uncovered eyes with the back of a hand. "I think my ma would be proud of me, this time. We did it, Hisagi-san! We did it!" He laughed hoarsely, sagging with exhaustion, and sharing the first genuine smile between the two if them in far too long. He sobered, and continued, "I'm sorry I couldn't get to you earlier, Hisagi-san. There was a shortage of of hell butterflies, and the denreishinki network for this part of Soul Society's still down, and messengers would have been too conspicuous. We couldn't wait, since this is the most men we're going to have free anytime soon, and the combined reiatsu of the men here just now is more than yours."

Hisagi shook his head, unconcerned with the trivialities. "It's fine, it's fine. I'm just glad you pulled it off. How is he?" He glanced around the cave, which, he noticed for the first time, was strewn with the members of the group in varying states of consciousness, cast in relief by several torches and kidō lanterns. The face he searched the hardest for was unseen, though the Captain's reiatsu permeated the air.

"_Where _is he? And what happened here? Did it take that much out of you?"

Iba shook his head sadly, mouth stretching into a pained yawn. "More than that. Sentoshi-san and Ueda-san were killed by the reiryoku drain. Hell, _I_ was out for a while."

"I'm so sorry, Iba-san. I feel so guilty—if I'd been here, your men would be fine right now."

"Don't apologize," answered Iba. "I already told you, we would have had a lower reiatsu total if we'd waited for your arrival, because most of these men have to leave in a few hours. They should be fine, since they've been asleep for a while now. This was the best way to do this. Ueda-san and Sentoshi-san knew that they were the weakest of us."

He shifted a few meters over to a stone outcrop. "They made their choice, and it was a noble one. I'm proud of them."

Iba slumped backwards further. "Hisagi-san, I need to rest. How long are you free?"

"The rest of the day."

"Then stay here until the Captain wakes up. He's in that corner over there, asleep," responded the other man, eyes fluttering shut.

The cave was silent, save for the echoes of the Shinigami's breathing. Hisagi made his way to the indicated corner, carefully stepping over the sleeping men and women, to the area that had served as a pen for the feral Captain.

There, asleep, and partially covered by a thin blanket, lay the hulking body of Komamura Sajin, as naked as the day he was born. Hisagi choked back a sob at the sight, realizing how much he had missed the werewolf. It had been over a year since they had spoken, but all of the affection was still there, only stronger for the time spent apart.

_I didn't really believe it could be done. Oh god, I can't believe this is real. _He dropped into the kennel and approached the Komamura ponderously, as if afraid fast movement would dispel the illusion before him. Relief and pure, honest joy beat in Hisagi's chest as he looked down on the sleeping form, dripping tears from the end of his nose. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt such pure positive emotion.

For an instant, a fractured piece of a moment, the future seemed less dark.

Hisagi sunk into a sitting position next to the sleeping giant, struggling to find the words to convey his feelings.

When the Captain awoke, it was after the majority of the men had been roused by a newly-revived Iba to take their shifts at the repair efforts. Hisagi looked up from the doze he had fallen into as Komamura stirred and groaned, the great mass of his chest heaving up, only to expel the air in a deafening exclamation. Hurrying to lean over the newly recovered werewolf, Hisagi hefted a lantern to illuminate Komamura's face.

"Captain?!"

The wolf squinted, baring his teeth slightly.

"Hn...Hisagi-san? Where are we? And where...where's my uniform?"

Hisagi took a step back, averting his eyes as Komamura sat up and arranged the blanket around his waist. He licked his lips, considering how to best answer the Captain's questions. "Captain...what's the last thing you remember?"

Komamura sat in silence for span, trying to parse through his disarrayed recollections of the recent war. "I remember..."

He hesitated, deep voice wavering on the first statement.

"Genryūsai-dono gave his life in battle. And I gave my heart for the human transformation technique...and I defeated the Sternritter Basterbine."

_He really doesn't remember? _Hisagi rocked back on his heels, brows furrowed.

"And then, Taichō?"

"I don't know."

"Think, Captain. What happened then?"

Komamura fell silent, canine face arranged in an expression of consternation. His gaze tracked down to his body, golden eyes betraying his uncertainty.

"I...did I...fall?"

"You did," sighed Hisagi, bowing his head. "We—Iba-san, your men, and I—we fixed you. But it took us a while to figure out how."

The lantern light wavered.

Komamura looked down at Hisagil, the warm light that painting his white fur orange. "How long did it take, Hisagi-san?"

Another sigh. It took a moment for Hisagi to answer, and when he did, it was with reluctance. His eyes traced over the back of Komamura's hand as he spoke. "A while. Over a year, Taichō."

Gold eyes widened, though Komamura remained silent, soaking in the information.

"Seireitei's still being rebuilt."

The words were heavy on his tongue, though he said them nonetheless. _Komamura- taichō needs to know._

_ "_Things are bad right now. Really bad," Hisagi continued, as images of food shortages and disease running rampant through the camps played out in his mind's eye. "As far as the public's concerned, you've been decommissioned as a captain. Iba-san has your zanpakutō. And Sōtaichō doesn't know about this yet. It's up to you to decide what you're going to do. Your old spot is still open. We want you back, Captain, but it's your choice. I guess I could understand if you don't want to take your job back, it's just—"

_Fuck. I didn't want to do this._

He ducked his head, hiding from the hot burn of tears that were finally spilling out—tears of grief, and remorse, and despair, and relief, and joy, and love, all mixed together in a jumble Hisagi couldn't for the life of him decipher. He sobbed once, desperate for the friendship of the man who sat across from him.

"I...I've already lost Kira and Matsumoto-san, Komamura-taichō. So many of us have died. Please...don't leave me, too."

Even as his heart went out to his friend, Komamura's usual warmth remained absent. Looking at his surroundings, his eyes narrowed at the two corpses that had been laid out in a corner and covered with a cloth. A branch of wild herbs smoldered next to them, a poor replacement for funerary incense. The cave reeked of their scent, growing all the danker for it.

Komamura placed a hand on Hisagi's shoulder tentatively, as if unsure which out of the two of them was more fragile. "What happened here? How did you and Iba undo the consequences of my actions?"

Hisagi took a breath in, drying his eyes and brushing his messy hair—cut short now, to prevent the spread of lice—back . With another breath, the answer was put to the air, cracking the shell of Komamura's impassivity with pride, love, and an overpowering rage.

"With a space-time kidō. There was a group casting that involved Iba-san and the strongest of your men. It was too much for two of them...Ueda-san and Sentoshi-san, I think. They died from the strain."

Komamura closed his eyes slowly, alarm and anger building in him at the news. _I'd have never though Iba the type to do something so dangerous and foolhardy. This...the Head Captain can't take me back like this. I'm the product of an illegal kidō; if anything, I should be incarcerated, according to the laws of the Diet._

He opened his eyes and looked at the face of Hisagi — _One of the leaders of what amounts to a crime ring_—and realized for the first time how gaunt the man was beneath his three-day stubble.

Komamura cleared his throat, and spoke slowly, already dreading the conversation's inevitable destination. "Hisagi-san, I'm sorry."

"Captain?"

He reminded himself of what Hisagi had been through, and of the importance of being calm, even as guilt shot through him at his anger, and stubborn adherence to his beliefs. The growl building in his throat didn't unnoticed by either of them.

"You realize I cannot return to duty as a product of illegal magic, don't you?"

A moment of silence. The darkness of the cave, deeper for the few lanterns left after the Seventh Division members had left, pressed in with a suffocating singularity of purpose. Komamura climbed to his feet, tying the blanket around his massive waist in the form of a loincloth. He continued, standing above the bodies of Ueda and Sentoshi.

"I won't even be able to return to the Gotei at all. I've half a mind to turn Iba in myself. This was an ill-conceived plan, wrought by desperation. And look, Hisagi-san, at what fruit it's borne! I'll likely have to be arrested upon my return, if not outright executed or banished for my involvement, unwilling though it may have been. Men died for this! I do appreciate your efforts, and those of the men and women under Iba's command, but the fact remains that this was an awful, careless thing to do.There are reasons those techniques are so taboo. I'm looking at one of them now. The matter of granting a pardon isn't up to Kyōraku-sōtaichō, either. The Central Forty-six will make the decision."

He looked over his shoulder at Hisagi, a figure delineated only by the scant illumination of the lantern playing across muscles and fur.

"And they will not be charitable in their ruling."

Hisagi's slightly sunken eyes widened and filled, even as the faintest tinge of pink—the best his body could do for a blush—crept up his neck and face. He glanced away, shame at his discomposure turning his stomach. "No, Captain. I-I'm sure, that if we tell Kyōraku-sōtaichō and the Central Forty-six that we don't know how this happened, they won't look any further than that. They can't. We need all the men we can get, and your reappearance would be a great rallying point for the _Communication_. We need you. In fact—"

Komamura leveled him with another stern look, giving no quarter. He had long ago resolved to place principles above personal feelings, and the decision was, in his eyes, still relevant, whatever may have happened in the interminable years since.

"This isn't about the consequences for me, or the Central Forty-six's reaction. This is about the law, and what it means for everyone involved in this enterprise. It's about my refusal to allow a blatant crime, one that I don't believe to be justified, going unpunished. Even for you."

Wiping his face again—_Is that a tic, now?—_Hisagi sighed, suddenly too tired for any more tears.

"Fine, then."

Hisagi knew his next words would be petty and bitter.

_It's justified_.

"Tell that to your men. But it should be easy, right, _Captain_? You certainly don't have any problem throwing me away. You could return to duty, and nobody would say anything. But you choose not to. You've changed. The old Komamura-taichō would stay with us. He'd have stayed for his duty. For his men. He—"

Suddenly, like a flash-fire in a forest months deprived of rain, there was anger, roiling like boiling acid in Hisagi's stomach. He was standing—he was walking forward, now, tempted to draw Kazeshini for the first time in months. In the back of his mind, he felt the demon egging him on, and didn't resist. Striding to face the Komamura from the other side of the two bodies, Hisagi shouted, heedless of caution, or sensitivity, or rationality. He gave into the wild, heartless violence of his blade, vented in a single broken phrase, sharpened to cut deeply into the heart of his best surviving friend.

Golden eyes caught the light of Hisagi's lantern, shedding more light on the feelings of their owner than either man would admit to noticing.

"_The old you would have stayed for me!_"

Outside, the clouds broke in tandem with the tension between the two, dousing the partially reconstructed ruins of Seireitei in spring rain.

Hisagi and Komamura broke apart from the bastard embrace they shared, each having long ago shed their composure.

_And how eagerly we did so._

A hand laced fingers into a much larger one. Komamura kneeled, even as Hisagi pressed a sallow face into the soft, warm fur of his shoulder, and uttered a final, muffled entreaty.

"Please, Captain, We need you. Let me show you how bad things have become. Let me show you the cities of leaky tents, and the ruins of the city. Let me show you the mass graves we had to dig for our own people. Let me show you my dead friends' graves. Let me show you the man I've had to become.

"Let me show you how much we need you."

Komamura gently patted Hisagi's back, and considered his answer.


End file.
